


What To Give

by youkokurama



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, Kinda PWP, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youkokurama/pseuds/youkokurama
Summary: What do you actually get for a man who could get anything for himself?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't make it in time for the season, as it's just so busy.  
> This had been at the mindburner for quite some time, I just didn't know at which context I would place this in. Then there was the holidays.

Illya quietly stepped into the apartment, senses still on high alert even if it was supposed to be his downtime now and this was the officially assigned safehouse. Frying smells met him on the few steps into the foyer, leading him to the familiar sight of a currently tousled mop of dark hair and strong, well-built back and limbs.

He may have lingered a little at too long at the kitchen doorway staring, a mix of deep-seated relief and guilt even as he acknowledged down to that pert backside where the knot of an apron curved deliciously over.

For a moment his worries were gone, as this was his favorite look on Napoleon: recently showered, already clean-shaven but hair not yet styled, white shirt and black pants pressed to perfection, no socks and slippers on.

"Had a nice flight, Peril?" was what finally stirred him from his stupor and made him walk across the room to drape himself over Napoleon's back and wrap his arms around the other's waist, breathing in the fresh smell of shampoo from his slightly damp hair and the crisp from the perfectly formed sunny side ups at the pan below. He just about forgot that around seven hours ago he had been crawling through some dusty vent in Sweden and was practically messing up Napoleon's pristine white shirt.

"I am sorry," was what he couldn't help but blurt back, and it was not just one thing he's sorry for but he didn't know how to begin. Napoleon finally looks up from the eggs and twists a bit in the embrace to look at the side of his face.

"It's no big deal, really."

"But it is to you." Though Illya doesn't understand it that much, he knew it was important to get home early for Napoleon's sake --- which he was unable to do because of the delays in the mission. Christmas Eve was not really a heavily-celebrated holiday in Russia, and those who do celebrate it in a different date from probably the rest of the world.

Ever since his father's incarceration, it had also been more impractical even, as getting money for a bit of decent schooling is more important than spending it all in a lavish feast. The young Illya would often forget about it, as he would just stay in the house and sleep away the cold that goes with it as his mother is usually whisked off to some rich man's company --- not an uncommon occurrence.

This time it is not something he could just sleep away however. This time he has Napoleon, the capitalist and a lover of the lifestyle that goes with it. Illya knows how much Napoleon's eyes light up at the mention of parties, of gift-giving. After the rocky patches they had to go through, when they couldn't even start with grudgingly respecting each other's abilities and eventually recognizing the honorable quality underneath the other man, Illya felt like they had wasted too much time already in being stubborn that he has to make it up to Napoleon. It means having to go along with his little capitalistic whims, though traditions are something he had not really expected of the other spy to be quite eager on.

Especially since they finally accepted to be "together", he noticed that Napoleon was not really going to his usual haunts anymore. His usual socializing was limited to UNCLE employees and the obligatory spywork. And from what he had observed before, Napoleon does not actually stay out at the actual Christmas or New Years Eve, contrary to popular impression. That is also what he could tell from the neat position of Napoleon's shoes and coat by the foyer.

Somehow Illya's heart aches at the thought that Napoleon may have just slept through Christmas Eve, like Illya did years before, not even bothering to cook a Christmas feast as Illya wouldn't be home anyway to eat it with him.

 

Napoleon, on the other hand, can certainly feel that strung out energy from his partner, if those arms tightening fractionally per second around his waist is any indication. He turns off the stove and fully forces himself to twist around those vice-like arms to face Illya, and, damn it's those pained, puppy dog eyes that are staring at him now. Illya, for all his toughness and murderous tendencies, somehow just couldn't hide how soft and expressive his eyes could be.

"Illya," he says, hands coming up to cup Illya's cheeks, "what is important to me is that you're back home safe. No need to think of anything else."

"But it was Christmas Eve." llya's brow furrowed. "You should not be alone."

Napoleon's heart couldn't help but swell at the sentiment. He had to admit, it did feel bad for a few hours after he received notice that Illya's return would be delayed, but half a bottle of wine did help, and... "Well, I did have my hand for company, you know."

The resulting reaction was almost instantaneous and definitely priceless. Even as those ice blue eyes dilated in arousal, Illya's face and neck flushed pink up to the tip of his ears. "You," he grimaced, flustered, and Napoleon can't help but laugh, patting Illya's cheeks before pushing at him lightly so he could have some space to move.

"If it would make you feel better, I can still try cooking up some little Christmas feast today. Russian-inspired, if you want."

Illya frowned, letting up Napoleon to finish with the eggs and toast. "I do not think any American could do it as authentic as a Russian does."

"Ouch. Is that a challenge I hear, Peril?" Napoleon smirks.

"You will need supervision."

"Oh how I love it when you try to go dominant on me," Napoleon purred, before thrusting the big plate of eggs and hash browns into the Russian's hands. "But first, breakfast. I know you're hungry."

 

Illya's stomach agrees with the assessment, because UNCLE couldn't really reassure a good plane meal if they could help it. Eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, jam, some heated croissants and brewed coffee were in order as they seated themselves at the table, exchanging commentary about the mission and nudging legs under the table.

Sitting across from Napoleon, looking at that twinkle in those eyes and that impish smile that only appears when they are alone together, Illya felt like he couldn't ask for anything more in this life. This is the only time he feels peace and quiet.

"By the way, look under the coffee table," Napoleon said after they finished eating, nodding to its general direction.

"What is it?" Illya goes over to the place anyway to look, and his heart sinks.

"You did not have to, Cowboy." Illya picks up the small rectangular gift box and brings it over to the table where Napoleon was already clearing the dishes.

"But I want to. Come on, open it."

Tearing at the wrapper just increased Illya's distress. He really didn't know how he could have forgotten getting Napoleon a gift, when it was all he had been thinking about on the plane to Sweden.

Maybe that was the problem. What do you actually get for a man who could get anything for himself? Add to that someone who has a fussy taste... Illya didn't know if it was a good thing that the mission distracted him, but it certainly made him miss the chance to shop around after. He had just wanted to take the earliest flight back as soon as possible.

Seeing the contents of the box though momentarily made him forget his fretting. "A matryoshka?"

"Yes," Napoleon said, that impish smile back again. "I just thought you'd like something that reminds you of home."

It wasn't just an ordinary matryoshka. It looks expensive, with the precisely applied bright lacquer on smooth wood, the intricate carving detailing the little doll's dress and face. He could say it may be on par with the finest artisans in Russia. He wonders where Napoleon may have... "Did you steal this?" he asks, suspicious.

Napoleon pouts. "If I didn't know you that well, I'd think that you're trying to hurt me."

"No, Cowboy. It's just... too beautiful. Thank you." He pops it apart carefully, and he gets the same high quality detail on the smaller piece. That goes on for the other pieces. He marvels how the artist still kept with the intricate carving up to the smallest piece. That's where he sensed something wrong. "This seems to be missing the smallest one however."

"You noticed," Napoleon looks a bit embarrassed. "It all just reminded me of you. I just thought I could keep Little Illya for myself."

" _Little_ Illya," Illya repeated. Of course Napoleon had to give it a name.

Napoleon smirked. "Though of course there is nowhere of you that's little..."

Illya resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he lessened the distance between him and Napoleon at the sink with his long strides, and captured the other spy's lips with a hard kiss. It did do a good job of silencing Napoleon and wiping that smirk off that face.

When they finally had to part for air, Illya pressed his forehead against Napoleon's. "I am really sorry, Cowboy. I was not able to buy you present."

"You're a stubborn man, aren't you," Napoleon breathed against his face. "I just said that you being here is already all that I wanted."

Illya shook his head. Suddenly an idea appeared in his mind. He drew back, gently clasping the American's wrists and tugging him off the counter. "There is something I want to give you, still."

Napoleon arched an eyebrow, but let himself be pulled nevertheless to the direction of the living area. "What is it?"

Once Illya began thinking about it, he just couldn't stop. It is quite an interesting idea, he just wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner. It made him nervous though.

He was not sure if Napoleon would like it in the end.

He led Napoleon to a plush chair, pushed at his shoulders down gently to make him sit. Napoleon looked up at him curiously as he turned to his knapsack to rummage at it shortly.

When he turned back around, holding some handcuffs, he watched Napoleon's eyes widen slightly.

"What is this, Illya?" Napoleon's expression was still open, his tone light, but Illya could just imagine that little flutter of uncertainty that must be in Napoleon's heart. That incident with Uncle Rudi already seemed like a lot of missions ago, however Illya can see after that Napoleon was taking care not to be tied up too much most of the time. While Illya is relieved that it must have instilled a degree of caution in the other spy, he could only wonder if it's only because Napoleon just wants to stave off a fewer additional flashbacks. He did witness one time a severe silent drinking session that ended with a nightmare Napoleon refuses to talk about.

"Trust me." Illya kept his own face as open as possible. "Hold at the back."

Napoleon's eyebrow arched again, but did as he was told, arms raising and bending back to grip the edges of the headrest. "Where did you even get those? I didn't think you'd be supplied with handcuffs on a reconnaisance mission."

"Stole from guard in Sweden." Illya rounded the chair and crouched down at its back.

"Seems like I'm being a bad influence," Napoleon remarked, as if they were just talking about the weather.

The sofa and chair set they had at this safehouse was made up of solid, heavy bars of hardwood upholstered with thick acrylic blend cushions. The back of the chair has the same frame, with four bars in the middle of the frame holding up the backrest.

He slipped the handcuffs in between the cushions and one middle bar. He had discovered that the cushions and the frame of the chair were not really glued together when he did an initial bugs sweep on the apartment. He had thought before that it would be a great detainer if they would need to hold someone in custody, as the hardwood is pretty much something even him with his strength cannot easily lift. It is so ironic that he would be testing it on his partner first.

He unlocked both cuffs, then pulled at Napoleon's wrists farther back to snap each closed around. He then straightened back up and walked around infront of the other spy to check on him.

It was quite amusing to see Napoleon fidget slightly under his gaze, trying to adjust the way he's seated so that he wouldn't hyperextend his arms too much. It was also quite... arousing, to say the least, as Napoleon soon settled down with his long and lean body slightly slouched and on display for Illya, biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt, meeting him eye to eye with a small smile playing at the edge of this lips.

Illya stopped himself from giving a long-suffering sigh. Instead, he pushed back the coffee table behind him to give himself some space, and knelt in between Napoleon's legs. "Are you alright?"

Napoleon looked surprised, seemingly not expecting the question, before sliding back into his typically confident demeanor. "Yes. It's not my first time to be tied up like this, you know."

"That is the idea." He placed one hand on Napoleon's knee, bracing himself as he kept eye contact, careful. "I want to do something for you. Because you are always doing something for me."

Napoleon's eyebrow raised, as he tried to digest with words, "And that... involves tying me up?"

Illya allowed himself a small smile. "That is the idea." Somehow, he could see Napoleon relax even more visibly at that action. "Because you always tend to meddle."

"I'm not sure that is the exact word to use for what I do, but..." Napoleon's voice slightly faltered when Illya reached out and started unbuttoning his shirt, "...if you just want me to sit back and take it you could just say so."

"You are still talking a lot."

"You like hearing me," Napoleon smirks.

Illya's fingers fumbled on a button. He realized he felt so unlike himself. Because bedding Napoleon is almost always a rough and tumble affair. It turns out fast and fiery, almost like they are always making up for lost time, for near-death moments. That their role is reversed this time, that he is the one initiating it slow, made him hesitate.

Only for Napoleon.

He wondered how Napoleon could make him act this way.

"You still have two buttons left," Napoleon then pointed out, and he was almost embarrassed. But when he looked back again at Napoleon, there was no mirth in Napoleon's eyes. Only kindness and fondness that almost feels too much, that it sucks the breath out of him and makes his eyes sting.

Shirt finished, he slides his hands up along Napoleon's sides, along his ribs, as he stretched himself up in between the bracket of Napoleon's legs, and began kissing him again.

He could soon feel something poking at his abdomen, making him remember to breathe, to puff at Napoleon's lips, "You're already hard." As he says so, he slides a hand down Napoleon's crotch, pressing the heel of his palm slightly, causing Napoleon to suck in air sharply.

"What else could I feel?" Napoleon gasped.

Illya drew back slightly then to focus his attention on unzipping Napoleon's pants, eyebrow raising as it was revealed that Napoleon wore nothing else, his cock immediately springing free into the air. "Someone seems too excited."

"Well, you're going home anyway, so." Napoleon lifted his hips as Illya's hands tugged his pants down and off his legs, flinging it somewhere as he regarded the rest of Napoleon's body with something like hunger.

Napoleon is too perfect, even more perfect than the most detailed Greek sculpture, well-developed muscles in all the right places, chiseled pectorals and abs, and body hair and scars. And there was that enticing cut of his Adonis belt leading down his hip to his crotch area where a thick, long cock stands proud and now beading precum, making Illya's mouth water.

It took all of his self-control to ignore that though, carefully maneuvering himself to the little space at Napoleon's side, hands gently kneading Napoleon's thighs as he straightened up, scenting and nipping and licking down Napoleon's neck, tracing his collarbones with his tongue. Scratching down his chest hair to his navel as he worried tongue and teeth at his nipple, then to the other, listening to Napoleon's soft cries, until he traces the valleys of Napoleon's abs and navel with lips and tongue that Napoleon is already squirming under him.

"Illya, you're killing me here," Napoleon groaned, handcuffs clattering noisily as he tried to angle his body up to get Illya moving to where he wanted the most attention. But Illya would have none of it, bending down further instead to nip at the surprisingly tender flesh of Napoleon's inner thighs, pushing them further apart to give himself more room.

Napoleon even smells still like soap here, mixed with his familiar musk. Illya nuzzles the junction of his upper thigh to his crotch, his nose nudging the velvety skin of Napoleon's balls. He lightly cups one, stroking idly with his thumb, and he feels the trembling in Napoleon's limbs. He trails that thumb down Napoleon's perineum, pressing slightly as he follows it with his tongue; that tongue goes further down to lick around Napoleon's pucker.

Napoleon jolts.

"Oh god. Illya..." Napoleon chokes, straining against his bonds, and Illya had to fling one arm across Napoleon's hip to pin him down. He feels the warmth of Napoleon's precum trail down his forearm as he idly toys around Napoleon's hole with his thumb. Napoleon was definitely dripping as he straightens up and regards that thin sticky line that streaks partly off his arm down the drop sticking messily at the American's happy trail.

He just couldn't resist it anymore.

He swipes his tongue around that mess of hair to clean up that drop, following the line up to the tip of Napoleon's cock. Napoleon moans above him; he closes his lips around that tip, sucking slightly to get a taste. More of that precum beads around his tongue, finding the flavor not that bad. He finds himself taking in even more of Napoleon's head, for better suction, and he lifts his eyes to check how Napoleon is.

He was stunned for a moment, seeing Napoleon's eyes half-lidded and pupils blown with lust, features twisted in an expression akin to helplessness, akin to ecstasy bordering on something similar to pain. Somehow he can never get used to Napoleon having these faces, and he really liked that look on the normally collected spy. Only for him, and him alone, for he did see Napoleon in action before with another woman and it was never anything like this.

He swears to himself, he would work to see more of that look.

Even if doing this often. Illya, admittedly, had actually never done this before, as he was not sure how exactly is the proper way, despite the many times he had experienced Napoleon doing it to him.

Keeping his eyes fixed at Napoleon, he tries taking more of him in, sucking slightly as he did so. He could feel his mouth watering around Napoleon's cock, how strange feeling some hard and velvety foreign object pulsing hot with life in his mouth. It feels oddly satisfying though, seeing the pleasure on Napoleon's face and the flavor on his tongue.

It reached the point where he felt like his mouth is too full and he couldn't take more, feeling Napoleon's hips reflexively trying to thrust up if not for his arm across Napoleon's belly keeping him down. He frowned, wondered how in the world Napoleon was able to do it to him when he was even longer by his estimate.

 

It was both adorable and hilarious seeing Illya's face occasionally scrunch up whenever he seems to try figuring out how to take more of him in, but it was also so hot and seductive seeing how Illya seemed to enjoy the feeling of his cock in his mouth, long blond lashes fluttering against his cheek, eyes glazed as he looks up at Napoleon to watch his reactions. Illya's mouth was a soft and fiery furnace, inexperienced but insistent, that Napoleon almost wails in protest, bereft, when Illya abruptly pulls off.

He wants to just rip off the rest of the chair, handcuffs or not, just so he could grab Illya back, but Illya didn't make him wait long. The Russian had proceeded with licking him up from base to tip like a lollipop, thumb sliding at the vein at his underside, and Napoleon groans at the sight.

Then Illya swirls his tongue at the head again, tracing into his slit, and Napoleon is lost. He could barely hold on to his upcoming orgasm, he damn wants to make this last much longer but the Russian has no real rhythm: sucking him down again, drawing back slightly before taking in more with some effort. He circles the rest of his fingers around the base of Napoleon's cock, drool slicking them; he feels a thumb pressing down his perineum, pressing into his hole but not breaching, before sliding back up again.

"Illya, I'm coming," Napoleon gasped, grappling at his chain and squirming uselessly under Illya's arm not budging, trying to move away from Illya's mouth as he's not really sure that Illya would like that thing. But Illya just sucked harder, taking in another inch more. Then he forces his thumb past Napoleon's tight hole.

That shocks Napoleon into his orgasm, head tossing back as he comes with a loud cry, spilling into Illya's mouth.

When he comes to, he feels distinctly Illya sucking him still, dutifully licking him up, causing slight tremors run through his body with the sensation. And there was still that finger stuck in him.

"You. In me. Now," he gasps, still not gaining his air.

Illya pulls off from his now limp cock, licking at his plush lips and blinking at him so adorably, that he would have gotten hard again if it wasn't too soon. Then Illya was a blur of motion, heat in his eyes as he near-frantically tugged down his pants and stretched out for his knapsack to rummage through and pull out a small bottle. Not even bothering to take off that damn turtleneck.

Soon he feels the familiar push of Illya's finger, then two, in him. He makes a soft noise, more out of frustration as he couldn't quite push back against those fingers, as his arms were starting to strain and his slouched position didn't give him much leverage.

But he next feels that blunt head of Illya's slicked cock breach him, and he all but blanks out. Illya just feels too big sometimes he had to try to relax fast, but it was just the way he likes it. Illya props one knee on the chair underneath Napoleon's leg, almost immediately hitting his prostate as he slowly bottomed out, making Napoleon keen.

There was not much finesse after that, as Napoleon knew that Illya had held out too long himself. But he relished the fast, nearly brutal pace Illya set, how Illya seems to sink so deep into him, and deeper still, hitting past that little bundle of nerves that makes Napoleon nearly wail. He feels so stretched, so full, and pinned down by Illya's cock, and it feels so _good_ , he found himself wrapping his legs around Illya's hips to make him go even deeper if he could.

Illya's eyes looked quite wild, sweat dripping down his chin to Napoleon's chest, almost covering all light from the ceiling as he bore over Napoleon and nearly bent him in half. And how Napoleon wished he could just pull him closer and lick him up to his mouth, touch him, but here he was helplessly reduced to just taking it all, his handcuffs rattling as he was slammed into again and again.

His desire must have been so apparent though as Illya almost immediately bent and practically devoured his mouth, until his thrusts became more erratic and he groaned his completion into Napoleon's lips.

 

Illya felt like he was blacking out, as he felt waves and waves of his orgasm empty itself into Napoleon's tight, willing body, braced taut over the sofa.

When he finally opened his eyes and was about to pull out, he heard a violent rattle, and Napoleon was suddenly grabbing him by his turtleneck and pulling him down for another heated kiss.

He supposed he should be offended that Napoleon was still able to easily free himself despite all that, but the kiss was making him forget about it all, as Napoleon thoroughly scoured his mouth for his own taste.

Soon they managed to part for air, Napoleon still holding on to his face with that satisfied grin, mirroring what must be a smile of his own. He can't help but press a kiss into that mouth again.

"Merry Christmas, Napoleon," he whispers into Napoleon's lips. "я люблю тебя."

Napoleon drew back from him a little, looking at him like he had said something really inspiring, before giving him a soft smile. "I love you too. So much."

Illya gently clasps the hands at his face, kissing the inside of those palms as he waited for their breathing to slow down. He notices the pinkish welts at Napoleon's wrists, and he instantly feels guilty. "I'm sorry, Napoleon," he says, thumb hovering over but not really touching as he feels he might end up breaking the skin. "I hurt you."

"More of like I felt sore and stretched being bent on this chair, but otherwise I'm fine." Napoleon grins up at him. "Next time we could try it somewhere easier on the back... like a bed, for instance?"

Illya flushed. "Next time."

"And I think we need a shower now."

Illya glanced down at where they were still joined. He started pulling out, feeling Napoleon's sensitized shudder, and watches with satisfaction as some of his come trickled out of Napoleon's hole. He also notices something else.

He slowly pushes a finger back in that hole, feeling the clench and slick inside, sensing Napoleon's sharp exhale and a full-body twitch.

"Illya, what are you doing?"

"You're getting hard again."

Napoleon met Illya's eyes, and recognition instantly flickers.

"Oh no, you don't ---"

Illya just smirks, and bends to take Napoleon into his mouth again, dissolving Napoleon into moans as he waited for him to grow back to full hardness.

 

Needless to say, cooking that late Christmas feast became much later.


End file.
